


Headspin, Happiness, Death.

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Cross canon, Gen, haha geddit, post FALL out, post fallout, post-ERASURE, rp inspired, sans pov, self indulgent, sol raveh, the kids aren't alright, the kids don't even exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9981236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: He keeps ignoring it. That’s not gonna last.But he’s always been pretty great at ignoring what’s right in front of him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dawnwards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnwards/gifts).



> To my darling Dawn on her birthday. I could not think of a thing more fitting for your birthday than something that celebrates everything we’ve worked on up to this point; a culmination of a year (literally a year!) of work on an rp that we’ve put our heart and souls into.
> 
> I love you. You are so amazing, and no words are ever going to do justice when it comes to showing just how much I mean that.
> 
>  
> 
> **Inspired by Sol Raveh; a ridiculous rp in which the kids aren’t alright and don’t even exist. Deadpool is there. Pokemon are too.**

 

* * *

 

**You told me not to be like anybody else**

**Broke down nothing else left**

 

**Oh, what I’d do. Not to worry like you.**

 

* * *

 

_There ain’t much of a tomorrow without you kids in it._

The surprising thing, he thinks, isn’t in the fact that he says it. It comes out in his usual rasp, a low rumble of a sound aimed at the small child at his side. It’s a cute place they’ve set up for themself. With their Partner, together. And maybe there’s a little something in the back of his mind that sees this as a good sign; the way these two kids have installed a sense of permanency in this place. Something that belongs to them, nobody else. Their treehouse.

His kids.

He can’t remember feeling this sort of contentment in a long while. Just watching the stars out the window, Frisk at his side. Topic’s heavy, but sometimes- sometimes kids need that kind of things. Need to know you ain’t about to forget them, tomorrow.

“OK,” Frisk says to him, and they look happy, too. Make a motion to grab at his bony fingers, and he lets ‘em, wouldn’t do anything to disturb that sense of peace around them now. They rarely get this; just a kid. Should have this more.

Took him a good while to remember that one, too.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

And that happiness, right there- sends a bubble into the center of his ribcage, bright and warm. Watching this kid- his kid- take his hands with what looks to him to be true happiness.

It’s moments like this he’s pretty sure he’s never gonna forget. “Yeah? Whassat?”

Their smile widens, just the smallest bit; and there’s the difference, between them and Chara. He doesn’t have to worry that it’s a sign of worse things to come; an indication he’s said or done the wrong thing. He’s good at that, with both of them. Frisk makes it easier. They take it easy on him.

They know he’s pretty new to this, as well. “Tomorrow.”

When they peer up at him, he can see the faint sliver of color beneath their lashes. Red- rusted red, similar to Chara’s in some ways, but entirely different. Warmer and worlds more inviting. Still Determined as all hell.

“If you still feel the same way tomorrow… my answer would be yes.”

_...Heh._

_Just reminded myself I never asked. Whaddya think of livin’ somewhere else when this is all over? Like a whole ‘nother world?_

“You tellin’ me to sleep on it?” He chuckles, because this right here, is precisely what he was talking about. Topic’s heavy, but sometimes- sometimes kids need that kind of things. Need to know you ain’t about to forget them, tomorrow.

He ain’t about to forget them. Not for a second.

“Sure. Ok, you’re on.”

It’s a safe bet, he thinks.

He forgets, sometimes, how Determined these kids can really be. Frisk and Chara both.

He forgets, sometimes.

And in the morning, before the fog rolls in over hills and seas, a metallic glow with the gentle hues of a torch blooms to life, nestled deep within the crags beneath The Bridge. Two small figures stand at the edge, hands clasped together as the fire-light washes their faces in a dim gold.

Quietly, they look at each other, and think-- _how good._

 

And he forgets.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he notices when he wakes up that morning, is just how uncomfortable his ribcage feels. Call it a habit, but when a guy has an empty, enclosed space to shove things into- he kind of just does it. Beats holding things. Beats a whole lot of things, actually. The things that have made their way into there into the past are innumerable; from pillows to coffee pots, and a sense of discomfort really ain’t that big a surprise.

Thing is, once something goes in, there’s effort required in getting it out. That doesn’t happen all too often.

He’s gotta get up and figure out just what it is that’s weighing him down, but thing is? He doesn’t. Doesn’t for a good while- hour, more. The sun is still shining through the open doorway to the balcony, which means it’s early. Early afternoon, early. Too early for guys like him.

Nah, he ain’t gonna move. Just idly watches the glow of the sun splash stark shadows across his floor, idly surprised that he can even see the floor. Paps must’ve been through recently, cleaned it up. He’s gotten sneakier about that, these past few months. Haven’t even seen him do it.

It’s not like him to avoid a chance to chastise him for something, but hey; what can he say about his bro? The guy’s got a great heart. Must be happy with the effort Sans has put into other places.

...The uh. The effort he’s put into other places.

Sure.

Try as he might, he can’t recall why he even bothered, most of the time. It’s whatever. The honest truth is if he hadn’t, s’likely nobody else woulda.

All the more reason he shouldn’t’ve.

Eventually, he gets up. Let’s slippers he never bothered to take off hit the floor, hunches over himself to push metacarpals under his shirt. Feel around for whatever nuisance he’s forgotten about this time, eye sockets pulling down when he hears (feels), bone meet metal with a soft ting. A clank.

A series of clanks, as he pulls the thing out from where it’s been solidly jammed behind his sternum. Surprise surprise, it’s not a coffee pot, filched from the kitchen and sorely missed.

It’s a first-aid kit.

He turns it over in his phalanges- flips it back round, pops the lid off. Glances over the contents with a lazy eye; notes, with perception borne from years of having to be just that, perceptive, that most of the contents are made for humans. All of the contents are.

There’s a space where he thinks some bandages might’ve been, who knows how long ago. They ain’t there now.

Why’s he bothering to keep hold of a thing like this?

There’s something real unsettling, about that question. Not so much that there isn’t an answer- ‘cause there’d be one. There’s a reason for these kinds of things; why a guy like him thinks to put something like this in a place that ensures he’s always got it on him; so high up his ribcage he’d probably damage himself, ripping it out too fast. So high up he’s got room to put other things in beneath it; a more permanent sort of storage. There’s reasons, for things like that.

Fuck if he wants to think about it. Life seems to give him the easy way out when he goes shuffling towards his wardrobe, and can’t find the usual blue hoodie. Thick, warm- a gift from Tori, back before she- went home. It’s not there. Can’t remember why.

In the end, he makes do with that one galaxy hoodie he’s got; something he’s pretty fond of just for the pattern, though the memories behind it ain’t all that bad, either. Big party, lots of drinking… that night, right there. Don’t have to guess why he’s got holes in that space. Heh.

Fact is, right now? Right now, it’s Christmas. Almost Christmas. He’s got a gift idea that’d knock Papyrus’ socks off, if he had ‘em, and with every G he’d come here with spent, he might as well spend the rest of the day watching Papyrus sit behind the wheel, locks blowing in the breeze.

It’s a good distraction.

 

It’s also a real shame Papyrus also decided to go home for the holidays. But them’s the breaks.

He spends the afternoon smoking with Wade, instead. He can’t even call it a poor substitute. When a guy has nothing else to his name, might as well spend it with the only other person who counts.

Aint’ got anyone else to worry about, anymore.

 

* * *

 

Next few weeks are weird.

S’probably the only way he can put it. December 16th… something about that date sits with him. If he thought about it (actually sat down and let himself think, not just throwing himself down for a nap, ignoring any intrusive idea that wanted to make itself known. Years of experience, and he’s gotten pretty adept, at that. Pretty good at ignoring what’s on his mind) he’d probably concede that it’s the day everything went weird; the day shit starts to fall apart.

Rin’s off her game, lately. Little Miss Cactus as always, but- angrier, in some ways. A bit more cutting. If he had to put a peg in it, he’d say she’s regressed a little ways back in time; right after she first came here. All business first, feelings last. There’s more of a story there, but despite how she’s been trying for him- being there, when he ain’t exactly being asking for it- the effort isn’t returned. She’ll sort herself out.

Doesn’t have it in him to play guidance counsellor for a wayward pre-teen-

Teen.

Not that she’s the only young thing that’s taking things hard, lately. Small chatter as always, but it crops up, time and time again; over breakfast, whenever Wade takes the initiative to pull him into a hangout- makes a hangout unavoidable, by barging into his room with a bottle of Sol Raveh’s finest, until they’re both a little too far gone to worry about anything at all.

His kid's been crying, he says. Every night. Can’t even begin to say why.

It’s bothering him, but Sans ain’t the person for that. Not even for him, really. Never was good with kids. Never wanted anything to do with ‘em.

(That’s a lie, his mind says. Over and over again. And over and over again, he ignores it. Over and over again.)

Asriel’s the next to go. Good riddance, says his mind, and he doesn’t ignore that one. He got the kid a room next to his at some point; to keep an eye on him, make sure that things stay nice and simple, between him and the rest of the world. Kid was miserable, but that was on him. A judge never forgets.

He takes a glance inside, one evening. In the light pooling in from the torch he sees the silhouette of the bed. Big, wood ladder attached to the side.

 

It’s a triple bunk.

 

He closes the door, and doesn’t think about it again. Asriel never should’ve been his problem in the first place, and now he ain’t at all. Good riddance.

Christmas is a time for cheer and joy, all that stuff. He sits at a table and lets people approach him as they will, vaguely fond of some, completely detached from others. It’s a motley crew, in Sol Raveh. Humans and monsters and all sorts of other things, all rolled into one. ‘Course, there’s only one monster standing, now.

Christmas is a good reminder of that.

Maka’s a good enough kid. She’d gotten it in her head to call him ‘uncle’ at some point- it’s weird, and kind of, y’know, not even remotely true, but he never bothers to correct it. She gets him this little- box-thing, and it’s cute; and then she cries as she tries to remember how they met. Cries and says he was sitting with someone, at the time; was sitting with someone when he first arrived.

For a day that’s already got a sour note to it, it’s pretty much the clincher he needs to go back to bed, and sleep the rest of the occasion away.  Half past done with this, he takes a shortcut back to his room- back to bed, where he should be.

In the space between, for just a moment, he thinks he sees something.

Hell if he’s got time for this kind of stuff. Since when did he even care?

 

* * *

 

December 16th is a weird day. It’s the day when things go up shit creek, and he spends the afternoon with Wade in the back of a bright red convertible, smoking up a storm. Not really feeling the cold- kind of surprised (and kind of...he doesn’t know, really.) when Wade checks up at some point, just to make sure he isn’t feeling the chill.

In the evening, Rin invites him up into a treehouse, and they make s’mores. Actual monster s’mores, with actual monster food. She makes it herself, warmly referencing a guy who’s been gone a good, long time (and the biggest regret there, he thinks, is that he only ever let Sanji cook for him a small handful of times). It’s more thoughtful a gesture than he’s used to; kind of makes him wonder if all the attention is gonna go to his head, with these humans and their constant quest to check up on him.

He doesn’t give the treehouse much thought, but his feet take him back there, one day. Another day when he’s out of bed before the sun’s up, the motivation behind such activity completely beyond him. It’s like his internal clock broke, when he wasn’t lookin’.

Heh. Since when wasn’t it broke?

There’s a couple of kids in Sol Raveh, a topic that’s rubbed him the wrong way, a couple of times. Gods pull people into a war zone, and some of the people happen to be under the legal drinking age.

Thing is, none of those kids are the type to do something like this. They’re the type of kids he looks at, and knows without a doubt; they’ve grown up way before their time. It’s the sort of stuff that reminds him of being a kid himself; of not being a kid, going from place to place with a little brother to take care of, a little brother who needed food on the table. A little kid, and no time for a slightly bigger kid.

Reminds him of that, just heavier. Way heavier. A big kid taking care of a little kid never killed nearly as many people as the child soldiers of Sol had.

Maybe that’s why it feels like an intrusion, stepping inside the doorway of the tiny, two-two story building. The whole thing is well thought out; even got it’s own little patio, little pots ringing the edges full of golden flowers that remind him (but can’t be. Can’t be) of the ones that littered the floor of the throne room like a sickness, a veil of brightly colored grief.

Interior’s real familiar, as well. On a smaller scale, but if he squints- hell, even if it doesn’t, it kind of reminds him of the king’s place. Same kinda fireplace. Same tiny kitchenette. Real damn familiar, in too many ways for it to be entirely a coincidence.

Never really got to know Asriel, did he? Kid must’ve been real homesick.

He’s definitely intruding. Yet Sans lingers, a while longer. Stares at the fireplace, that doesn’t look like it’s been used in awhile; not since he and Rin were last here, at least. Sharp-eyed enough to catch a shadowed corner of the wall, where Crona had carved her name into the wood. Good for her.

Examining the whole first floor is easy enough, but his feet stall, on the second step.

It’s so quiet in here.

And he’s definitely intruding.

It’s his given nature to be a snoop. He knows, unquestioningly, that he’s been through the kid’s actual room, a few times. Remembers finding food stuffed into the weirdest of places, somethin’- there was somethin’ under a pillow, once, somethin’ that didn’t surprise him at all, but left him feeling resigned to the state of things. Whatever it was (the exact details escaping him completely) Sans is pretty sure it was dangerous. Not a surprise.

He’s been through Asriel’s room more times than he can count, though that stopped, in December. It just kind of stopped. He’s a snoop. It’s in his nature.

He doesn’t go up those stairs.

He tells himself, before knocking on Wade’s door, that the least he can do is offer that kid some privacy, now that he’s gone.

He’s done enough, on that front.

 

* * *

 

Without Papyrus, the mess in his room builds up real quick. It’s a mess by day two- day fifty-nine? There’s a trench in the mess, two lines that lead from the doorway to the bed, and from the bed to his desk chair. That’s it. Part of him misses using his balcony, even though he doesn’t really have to walk the ten feet it’d take to be outside. Pretty sure his telescope is buried somewhere amidst the piles of paper, clothes and empty coffee cups, anyway.

(He pretends this is the reason why he’s doing it, but it’s not. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be using his shortcuts. There’s no reason at all.

Cept he swears it was there, last time he did. Swears he keeps seeing it.

 

**S̳p̸̻r͇͔̖͚͈_̢͍̟̠ș̳̤a̠͖̞̬̭̖Ve** )

 

Sitting on the bed, he finds himself staring at his desk chair, for a while. For a good, long while, eyes drawing along the edge of the seat to the floor, like he can see something else, there. Feels a quiet dose of shame, and has no idea where it comes from.

He’s had a lot of those, lately. Way too many.

That’s probably what prompts him to uh, try, in the end. Other aspect that gets to him, just a bit, is the lingering scent of sickness in the room. Can’t say he’s ever been the type to get sick often, but there it is. January was hell on a lot of people; still is hell, for a few. He might’ve been down and out for a good month, but he’s still the lucky one. He got better. He had someone taking care of him.

Pretty nice, when the one guy round this place you actively don’t wanna see die shares the sentiment. Wade’s the good sort. Kept him going then, keeps him going now.

And Wade’s a slob, but even he’s gonna comment on this eventually, right? So, clean it is. May as well make sure there’s still a mattress on the floor, somewhere; the second bed that’s gone from being his emergency spot for when the desk and his actual bed are too far apart, Wade’s claimed spot, and, uh. A pile of papers and cups.

He doesn’t really have that much stuff, he thinks. Most of this junk is papers; stuff he doesn’t remember writing, things from back when the generator was the only thing keeping him going. Back when Papyrus disappeared for the first time; or the second. Somewhere around there. Nothing better to motivate a guy than the knowledge his brother was going back to a timeline where he died, right?

Right.

Again, something about that rubs him the wrong way. Should think on it, doesn’t. He’s spent enough time thinking about Papyrus being dead to consciously make an effort to walk down that road.

(But...how’d he die, again?)

Most of this is just junk. Sans doesn’t even bother with a bag; just tosses it over the side of the balcony, into the sea below. With any luck, it’d float itself into another cavern full of some species that had been locked away for centuries; it wasn’t polluting. It was doing his service to those less fortunate. Most of the cups, well and truly full of moss and other things he wasn’t about to stick his phalanges in, meet the same fate. Over the side, into the sea.

There’s a good pile of clothes that build up, too. Sheets he never bothered putting on the bed, spare sheets he must’ve pulled out at some point, and left on the floor. He can’t remember the laundry room in this place- and this time, he knows why. Can’t remember a place you’ve never been to. Heh.

It’s the post-sick high, he thinks, that has him spending a good hour, maybe more, chucking out junk and letting fabrics pile up in the corner. Happy to be alive; a good motivator, in it’s own way. He cleans around his desk chair, then he ignores it. The feeling of guilt doesn’t go away, every time he catches sight of it in his periphery. Extra motivation, there. Bit of a high, bit of a heavy sense of dread, sitting on his bones since December. December 16th.

There’s a couple of socks peeking out from under the bed. He’s of the opinion that clearing them out is getting a bit pedantic, but hey. Paps would’ve done it. So just this once, he bends down to pick up his socks, chucking a couple over his shoulder in the vague direction of what’s already gotta go in the wash.

Socks ain’t the only thing under his bed, turns out. More papers; another bedsheet. Does he even need this many? He sees another lump of fabric, dismisses it as a pillowcase at first, but when he gets his fingers on it and tugs, it clanks. Weighted down and barely budging with the motion.

Turns out it’s actually a sack. He thinks he- got it. He remembers getting it. At the other place, with the beach. Had browsed the stalls at the market and walked away a half hour later with said sack grasped between his phalanges and the thought that it’d do. Good enough.

He ignores the urge to shove it straight back under the bed, and opens it. The contents are familiar too. Trowel, hand shovel. Even one of those hand rakes. The metals are patterned with flowers against a soft cream background, and at the bottom of it all, there’s a book.

It’s cover adorned with only a faded blossom in gold left; rubbed nearly clean away with use. There are penciled notes in the margins and on the back cover when he looks, the musings of another gardener from a different world and time.

And then there’s the other handwriting, painfully neat and small. Flowery cursive that has him thinking ‘ _typical_ ’ even as something in him twists sharply, and he slaps it shut as his bones shake with something that feels like betrayal.

Something that feels, all too strongly, like regret.

How long had this sack been down there?

It goes back under there. Right back, hitting the wall hard with the force his magic sends it flying. He’s got his phone out the next second, listening to it ring to a number he doesn’t even have to have on speed-dial; it’s the only one he ever calls.

“Wade, buddy. You’re _short_ gonna believe this, but I gotta few problems I gotta _wash_ my hands of. You gonna help out a pal?”

Don’t think about it anymore.

 

Ha **ha. Don’t think about it anymore.**

 

* * *

 

The dreams don’t start; they just become apparent. Apparent in their absence; in the way he opens his eyes, and doesn’t remember dreaming at all.

It’s a pretty big difference from the norm, one that becomes more and more apparent, the more time rest between how he’s faring now, and how he was in January. It’s not just the fever, wiping his mind clean the moment consciousness falls back onto him.

Worse is the moments before he’s aware he’s conscious. It’s the moments in between, the moments where he kind of feels-

A variety of things.

 

Loss, mostly. It’s mostly loss.

 

It’s getting harder to get out of bed, most days. He’s got one reason to, and that reason knows how to knock. Sans tries to tell himself it’s not for any reason in particular, but increasingly, he just wants to sleep. Wants to sleep more than usual. Just stay asleep, and years ago, he would’a taken that as a pretty bad sign.

Pretty sure he’s got an entirely different reason to want to sleep, these days. Wants to, he doesn’t know. Lose consciousness. Not just doze. A quick five minutes doesn’t do it for him, anymore. He’s either out of it entirely or up, and irritated at being up.

Some days, even Wade gets irritating. And irritating takes- it takes effort. It takes effort.

 

Congratulations. You **actually made an effort.**

 

Don’t think about this anymore.

 

He keeps ignoring it. That’s not gonna last.

But he’s always been pretty great at ignoring what’s right in front of him.

About one of the only things that hadn’t gotten wrecked the one time he tried to wash his clothes is that one hoodie- the galaxy one. Less that it becomes his default item, and more like now, he has a reason for why he’s been wearing it, so much. Couldn’t find the jacket Tori gave him, when he cleaned up. It’s nowhere to be found.

He’s not even sure she gave him a jacket anymore.

One day, he reaches into the top pocket and finds something. It’s pretty fitting with the whole theme. Just a little notebook; galaxy print on the cover.

On the inside of the cover is a miniature annual calendar, every day mysteriously checked off- to October 5th. A few more checks, here and there; but they’re his writing, pen pressure and the stroke of each X entirely different to the first nine months of X’s. Flipping through the pages reveals a tiny heart stamp, marked on the bottom-right corner of each. The paper smells faintly of petrichor.

He’s written in it, a few times. Just some observations, here and there. An idea for an invention or two. One of the margins has a Christmas tree scribbled on it.

Sans can’t remember any of it. It’s his writing, for sure, but he’s seconds away from swearing aloud, he’s never seen the thing before in his life.

When he tries to do just that, his voice gets stuck in his throat.

Christmas was a weird day. He got a photo album, back then. Flipped through pages of Papyrus and himself as kids with fondness, till he got to a photo at the very back. Him, standing in a group of a bunch of people. He’d looked happy.

Kid in the middle. Striped sweater.

Their face had been scribbled out with red marker.

It’s one of those things he should’ve been paying attention to.

But he just hadn’t thought about it, anymore.

 

* * *

 

He could put down a conclusion now, if he wanted to. It wouldn’t be hard. Harder still is not just- doing it. Cementing it all into reality with the kind of finality that could make a guy turn to dust on the spot, if he was so inclined.

Things have been weird, since December 16th. People have been weird.

Half the time he can’t remember his own motivation, behind half the stuff he’s done. More, in some cases. When he really thinks on it (and he has to, now. Has to. Can’t keep pretending something’s not there when it’s this _big_ , when he’s not escaping it, awake or asleep), he’s got no reason for doing most of the stuff he’s done; involving himself in rescuing people, taking part in activities that included walking for an entire day, scoping out the castle. Flagrantly walking into the thick of a war zone, just to see what his side could take for themselves. It’s not him,

It’s not who he is now, and the question there is whether or not it’s the person he _was,_ before that morning. Before December 16th. The kind of guy who’d started making observations in notebooks, when he hadn’t done something like that in years. The kind of guy who kept first aid kits in his ribcage, for reasons he still can’t figure out.

The kind of guy who cared.

He could put down a conclusion now, cause it’s not just him who’s changed. Rin’s still got this- angry thing going. If he had to put it into words, it’s like something in her just shut off. An experience she never had leaving her less and less open to others- way more inclined to be how he is. There, but not really. Just passing through.

Wade’s a bit jumpier, too. Tibia ain’t stopped crying. What happened back in March, in front of Rin and Leo- he’s not gonna think about that. That’s not gonna help. Never knew the guy could paint, either, but he’s been painting a lot, these days. Subject’s always the same.

He can never paint the faces.

It’s not just them. It’s everyone. People he’s known for over a year who’ve changed, in some ways- ‘cept he hadn’t paid much attention, because he doesn’t much care. Doesn’t know when or why he did think he cared. Something’s changed, in this castle, and the answer’s obvious, at this point. It’s obvious.

Something’s gone. It’s not just Papyrus. Not just Asriel. There’s an absence, an aching void that’s being felt like a shockwave, through a good portion of the castle’s occupants. Too many instances that aren’t adding up, in too many minds for a coincidence. Too many angry faces, too many sad ones. It doesn’t add up, but it does.

He’s seen this before.

The thing is, he could put down a conclusion here; but he doesn’t. He could label it for what it is, and he could spent the next ten years of his life, frantically scratching up every little thing he can get his bony fingers on. He could do that again, if he wanted. He’s had practice in those sorts of things; in being so fixated on the problem he stops seeing anything else. Or he could just

He could just lay down. Sleep, knowing that whatever it is that he’s seeing in his head, he ain’t gonna know it when he wakes up. Sleep, knowing that there’ll be an instance, between wakefulness and sleep, where he feels that lost like a physical thing. Because in that instance, right before the loss crashes down on every fibre of his being, he feels something else.

He feels happy.

He could put a conclusion down, here.

Instead, he’s just

 

 

Gonna sleep on it. 


End file.
